


Melancholy Meanderings

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Pining, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24659869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: A riverbank, the bright summer sun and wandering eyes, what could ever go wrong?To put it simply, Jaskier has... feelings. Feelings he wants to express.And yet... for a bard he is having a surprisingly difficult time finding the words.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 44





	1. writers block

Jaskier trails a lazy hand through the water, watches it trail through his fingers, aimless and unpredictable. The water is cold, a sharp cold, just on the right side of pleasantness. He sighs, eyes flick up and over to Geralt, tucked away downstream, paying Jaskier absolutely no mind as he focuses on washing the blood from his clothes.

Unsurprising really.

He suspects they will be there a while, long enough for the Witcher’s clothes to go from soaked to wearable damp at the very least.

Not that he should be complaining about an arguably well-earned break.

He drops his gaze, retracts the hand, reaches for his lute, lain beside him in the grass. He hefts the instrument into his lap, no real plan in mind, but restless hands wanting to do something all the same.

He fiddles, needlessly adjusting, putting off any actual creation, instead wasting time positioning the strap, shifting the instrument, checking its tuned.  
  


He wants to play. wants to song, wants the release he knows comes with it, nervous eyes flicking back to Geralt, the unnecessary annoyance fuelling this particular need for release.

Heat heavy, beating painfully in his chest as he eyes the man he lov-

…the man he… ~~lusts for,~~ ~~adores~~ , ~~cares deeply about~~ … admires. Oblivious to his ~~desire~~ admiration. 

It’s enough to make you cry, if he was one to cry, if he thought it would help.

It’s not a day for tears. The sun is bright and warm, light against his skin, sky clear, Geralt proven once again victorious in battle…

No, it was not a day for tears, it was not sorrow that thrummed within his bones, beating out its own annoying pattern against his skin.

It was something else. Something harder to express. Harder to deal with.

He sighs, pulling his eyes, if not his thoughts, away from Geralt. Restless fingers strum, half-hearted on the instrument, words and lyrics bouncing disjointed and unusable through his head.

He tries to focus, make use of the day, play something, anything. Anything to quell the rabble and restlessness filling his mind.

The one circulating, returning thought, of Geralt, making his heat clench and twist painfully.

He tries to pick up a tune, play something familiar, muddles the cords, the song sounding mute and lifeless.

He gives up after a few lines, finding no enjoyment in the forced attempt of action.

His hand falls free, into the grass beside him, fingers threading through the long stalks, twirled and entangled within his grip. His gaze drifts upwards, to the bright blue sky, staring up at its vastness, wishing his mind was as clear as it was.

He sighs again, a full-bodied sigh, big and heavy, shoulders lifting and dropping along with his chest.

Head drops again, he strums his instrument once more, fingers slow and heavy, mumbling out half lines, muddled and unconnected thoughts, sung low, for his ears only, “summers sweet kiss quickly fading/ only the cold bite of winter is left…”

He lets the thought trail off, mind going blank once again, sighs in irritation and tries once more, “the biting change of seasons…”

No. no that wasn’t right either.

Something is right. Somewhere there are the words. He knows it, can feel it, feel them, tickling his mind, hidden away in some corner he just can’t reach.

It’s infuriating.

His fingers tap aimlessly on his instrument, itching for… something. 

He shifts, adjusting, shifts again. Not from discomfort so much as in a desperate attempt to work off the pointless and overwhelming energy that consumes him.

He sucks in a breath, steadies himself, eyes locked on the back of Geralt’s head. Ready to go. Ready to do… something, anything. Channel out the mess the Witcher has caused to cultivate within his chest.

Fingers dance over strings, voice comes strong and clear, “summers…” he loses momentum almost instantly, pitching forward with a low groan.

From his new position, hunched over his lute, he finds himself staring back down into the clear water. He considers for a moment, just tipping forward, into the fast running water below, let himself sink into its depths. Let it slowly steal his breath, watching the bubbles float away, put him out of his misery.

He doesn’t. Figures there would be little point, Geralt would likely yank him out before he actually drowned, assuming he didn’t just brain himself on the bottom of the stream instead.

In one fluid motion he tips himself back, sends himself sprawling into the grass, lute heavy against his chest. A crushing weight, bearing down on him, how fitting, he thinks, soft fingers stroking the unforgiving wood.

His eyes squeeze shut. Mind still somehow whirling, yet seemingly producing absolutely nothing of worth.

He sucks in a deep breath, feels the lute shift with the movement of his chest, bearing down on it.

He finds himself overcome with the strangest urge to smash the damn thing. Can see himself, in his minds eye, getting up, raising the instrument high above his head and bringing it down, quick and heavy against the earth. Watch it shatter and splinter, like so many of his lutes had before it.

He does not.

Instead he stays there, eyes closed, feeling the weight on his chest, heavy and suffocating, yet oddly comforting all the same.

Distantly he hears footsteps, approaching rapidly. His eyes flick open, meeting Geralt’s, the man half bent over him, staring down, a mask of disinterest hiding any actual emotions.

He quirks an eyebrow, Geralt snorting in response, offering an unimpressed shake of the head.

He wants to say something, start a conversation, let it distract him, drag him out of his muddled mind, but the words stick in his mouth, heavy and uncomfortable, refusing to come out.

Geralt’s no help in that regard, moving off without a word to go fuss over roach, seemingly having lost interest once he’s confirmed Jaskier is in fact still alive.

He sighs at the loss, wishing he had said something. Knowing he technically still could. Could sit up, call back the Witcher, or try to at very least, he must admit it would be a gamble as to if Geralt would come and listen.

But he could try.

He could do something.

He doesn’t. Idle fingers pluck at strings, playing nothing. He cranes his neck uncomfortably, catching glimpses of Geralt in the corner of his view. Sighs uncomfortably, eyes falling shut once more.

He hums, aimless, wordless, feeling stuck and heavy. Murmurs out more broken lines, half thoughts, needing to get free, “winter’s bite… frosty and frozen… mmm… sweet lilac on the air… but summers over my dear…”

It’s good. No. it’s nothing. But… it could be good. He’s sure of it. He’s just not sure he can make it good.

He sighs again, eyes opening. He freezes in surprise, finding Geralt staring back at him, eyes meeting unexpectedly.

He sighs again, eyes opening. He freezes in surprise, eyes meeting Geralt’s, finding the man staring back at him, the hint of a calm smile showing on the Witcher’s face. Geralt breaks the eye-contact almost instantly, gaze quickly adverting, smile dropping from his face just as quickly.

Oh, now he truly wants to press, prise open that moment, tease it apart and analyse every aspect.

Before he gets the chance Geralt’s eyes flick back over, catching Jaskier still opening staring.

A frown paints Geralt’s face, eyes flicking down, Jaskier thinks he seems almost uncomfortable.

“It’s good.” The Witcher grunts out, seeming not to want to say the words, even as they leave his lips.

“It’s nothing,” he answers, truthful. It is nothing, nothing but the messy shouting of his cluttered and chaotic mind, just trying to find a way to express the crushing weight of an aching heart.

Geralt grunts again. Shrugs, looking away, letting the conversation drop.

He looks away as well, eyes dropping to the lute, half in his lap, half lent on his chest. He can’t stop a small smile from spreading across his face. His heart seems to spasm in his chest, unsure and confused. A new warmth settles in his chest, comfortable, proving an odd contrast to the continued twisting pain of a desperate heart. 

He wonders how he will ever find the words to express it, to understand it, to make it real.

If he ever will.

Gods, he hopes one day he will.


	2. soft sweet humming

The broken lyrics continue to follow him, bouncing in the back of his head, an annoying itch he just can’t seem to scratch.

So instead he ignores it, tosses it below everything else, lets it sit, abandoned at the back of his mind while he focuses on other things. Returning, from time to time, to try again, try and tease it into something real. The words. The feeling they are meant to convey.

It’s… infuriating. And annoyingly hard to burry and hide.

When the annoyance, the reason for his struggles remains ever so present within his life.

It’s befuddling, the way it manages to leach into everything else he does, mixing up words for songs he knows, making fingers jump and scatter, missing beats, muddling simple chords.

He can lose it, sometimes. When things are good, when he finds something else worth focusing on. And for a time, it fades, into the background, half forgotten lyrics lain momentarily to rest as he works on something else.

Or when he plays. When he manages to play, to push past the fumbling fingers and truly get into a song once more, feeling the buzz, the beat of his heart, soaring, in front of an appreciative crowd.

But then the performance is over, the high fades, and the unnerving, never ending energy returns once more, soaking back into his bones. Making him bounce and jostle and twitch. Uncomfortably energetic once more.

It’s agonising.

He finds himself watching Geralt, increasingly often, eyes tracking the Witcher, watching the man, move through the inn, settled in the corner, nursing a drink. Watches him move through a crowd, people sliding aside so quickly for him. Watches the man scrub clean his clothes, skin a hare, start the evening fire…

He finds himself sat near one such fire early one evening. Sun just starting to sink out of the sky, world slowly shifting to shades of grey.

His lute sits settled comfortably in his lap, fingers strumming aimlessly, mind somehow both empty and yet also still buzzing. Eyes drifting between the crackling fire and Geralt’s broad back, the man tilted away from him, cleaning a blade.

His eyes trace the man’s strong shoulders, watching the muscles ripple and shift, the light bob of Geralt’s head, dirty hair falling over his face…

He sighs, sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. Gods, he… wants. Wants something. Wishes he had the words to explain what.

He finds himself humming a pointless tune, not even bothering to try to find words, mind too busy to let him.

Finger’s bouncing aimlessly on the lute, plucking random cords, trying to find something, anything that fits. Nothing coming to mind, everything coming to mind.

Geralt rolls his shoulders, he feels his mind stutter, missing a beat. He drops his eyes back to the fire, he wouldn’t let his mind wander there, not now. Focuses on the fire instead. Humming, strumming, trying to comfort his mind in any way he can.

He hears Geralt shift, eyes flicking back, watching as Geralt places the blade away, job done, turns towards the fire, settles back, getting comfortable.

His hum shifts to song, a wordless low song, sweet words whispered out, soft and gentle.

Geralt grunts. Looks over, eyes meeting briefly, face lit in the glittering glow of fire light. An ever so brief moment of contact, the Witcher’s eyes returning to the fire before he even truly has time to register it.

His fingers stutter, mind going blank. He sucks in a breath, hand stilling, lets out a half whispered, oh,” as something… clicks.

Breath caught in his throat, he… stills, mouth hanging slack, fingers still against his lute.

Geralt catches the stare, raises and eyebrow.

He feels himself flush, words, that had spent so long escaping him suddenly roll off the tongue, out of his control,

“I think I love you.”

Geralt’s brow raises, a look of surprised confusion painted across it.

“…and I’m terrified that you don’t love me.”

He watches Geralt flounder, mouth opening and closing, clearly at a loss for words. Gods, if that wasn’t a familiar feeling. He almost wants to laugh at the site. Laugh to offset the feeling of his heart shattering.

“I…Jaskier…”

He does laugh at that, a high pitched, panicked sound, swinging the lute strap off his shoulder, shifting the instrument aside, scrambling to his feet, to find some excuse to run. Spitting out words in a desperate attempt to cover himself, “it’s fine, just forget it, fuck. I’m sorry, just- just forget I said anything just-“

“Jaskier.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, it’s not important, I can get over it I just-“

“ _Jaskier.”_

He stops, stills, sucking in a breath. staring at the Witcher. Geralt stares back.

Offers a hand, slow and careful.

He accepts it, fingers intertwined. The touch grounds him, holds him still, stops him running. He pulls in another breath, feels his chest moving, slow and heavy.

Geralt tilts his head, studying him, sighs, low and heavy, draws out the words when he next speaks, clearly thinking through each one before allowing it to leave his lips, “Jaskier… I… I didn’t know.”

He snorts at that, offers “I didn’t know,” in return.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, nods, less surprised than he may have expected.

The Witcher pulls his hand down, fingers still intertwined, pulling Jaskier down with it. He finds himself seated beside the man, staring silently, willing Geralt to find the words he needs, to end this new torment.

Geralt doesn’t find any words, instead raising the entangled grasp, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of Jaskier’s hand, slow and soft. He drops the hand, shifts, leaning forward, slowly, hovering, giving Jaskier time to pull away, before pressing his lips against the bards.

The kiss is soft and sweet, as gentle as Geralt can make it.

They break apart as slowly as they met, Geralt finally dropping the grasp on Jaskier’s hand, instead coming to cup the younger man’s face, offering the slightest of smiles.

He smiles back, a small, private smile, just between the both of them. Here’s Geralt hum, low and comforting.

He laughs again, this time light and airy, tipping forward, crashing into Geralt’s chest, wiggling till he gets comfortable.

Geralt snorts looking down at him, smiling face hinting at sadness, edges of a frown as he says, “I can’t… I can’t return… I can’t say it back- yet.”

He nods. He knows, and that’s ok. He can wait, wait for Geralt to find the words as he did.

He reaches back, flailing, tugging over his lute, feeling the sudden need to play something.

Geralt snorts at the uncomfortable shifting movement, bending to press a soft kiss to Jaskier’s brow.

He readjusts, settles back against Geralt’s chest, resting his lute in his lap once again.

Fingers dance back over the strings, strumming, humming, murmured half lines. It’s still mostly meaningless drabble, but… better somehow. Doesn’t matter that it isn’t finished, isn’t polished.

He’s found what he needs to say, words spoken, mind and body settled. Finally comfortable, not caring about the words, not because he can’t find them, but because they are unneeded.

What he has, he knows, is enough.

And that is all that matters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blarg


End file.
